


Show Me a Great Plan

by WriteDreamLie



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Does 16k and 4 chapters count as slow burn?, First Kiss, Gen, Guys the chapters keep getting longer I'm sorry, Human AU, M/M, Slow Burn, they're both still assholes, who will eventually be idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteDreamLie/pseuds/WriteDreamLie
Summary: A.J. Crowley is an eccentric "business man." A.Z. Fell is a bookseller who refuses to sell any books.After Fell (unwillingly) helps Crowley out of a sticky situation, the two become oddly fixed on each other. And their relationship could just be the thing that saves them both.





	1. Sunglasses in a Bookstore

Anthony J. Crowley was an eccentric from his well-styled hair to the tips of his long, snakeskin boots. If it wasn’t obvious from the outfit, all black and more expensive than any single set of clothes had any right to be, or the sunglasses that were invariably worn even in rain and after the sun had gone down, the car was a dead giveaway. The vintage Bentley looked like it ought to have been in a museum: it shined like the day it had come off the assembly line and rumbled with what sounded like an original engine. Truth be told, it was… maybe 20% new. Crowley had bought it several years back as unaltered as he could find it, demanding that it be furnished with as many original parts as possible. From there, he’d added only as many new parts as were necessary to get it running again. All told, it had almost been his most expensive venture to date. Almost.

If you asked him where he got all that money, he’d gladly tell you. If you asked him again the following week, he’d tell you a different story. Nearly everybody who’d asked him over the years had received a different answer. Some came with long, drawn-out narratives depicting a highly complicated business structure and a wide network of sales and communications activity. Some came with a mumbled response and a light glare over the top of his sunglasses, which only added to the mysterious and eccentric aura Crowley had meticulously built around himself.

The real answer was one only Crowley and a handful of other people knew. Half of those people didn’t know they knew, having been told the real answer as if it were a joke. The other half were not prone to joking in the slightest and may have been the only people with appearances more eccentric than Crowley’s… if they ever bothered to make any real attempt at appearances at all.

That in itself was what troubled Crowley today. Not that he hadn’t seen his business partners, but that he’d seen entirely _too much_ of them. They were following him as he wandered aimlessly through Soho. Originally he’d stopped for lunch at a pub he knew that always had his favorite rum in stock. But they’d been there, in the shadows, prompting him to about-face and find another place to dine.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to lose them just yet. He knew his only advantage was just how much free time he’d had over the last few years of living in London. He knew every inch of the city, had walked every street and back alley at least once and mostly sober. He knew where he could hide, where they would never think to look for him.

He swung around one last corner and came face-to-face with an unfamiliar door. _Huh._ Before he could pause to process this development, Crowley pushed the door open and stepped inside the shop.

* * *

Mr. A. Z. Fell was not what most people would call eccentric. Though he had his eccentricities—mainly his attire which made it look like he’d come into his own several decades before and never bothered to update his wardrobe—most people, if asked, would have gone with “stuffy” or “petulant” or “very rude for a man who owns a cozy bookshop and dresses like a person who thinks tartan is nifty.”

It was all part of the charm, Fell would think to himself when he’d successfully chased off a customer. From a coat he’d been gifted by his grandfather years ago—kept in pristine condition, no less—to the bowtie he adjusted rather pointedly when the situation called for it to the small, round glasses he kept on hand not because he needed them but because they were handy for starting down customers over when they got a little too handsy with the books. The vibe he hoped to give off was that of a perfectly pleasant seller of books, so long as there were no books actually being sold.

The shop was full of an extensive collection gathered over the last few decades of Fell’s life. There were large selections of poetry and romance, mystery and suspense, fantasy and religion. There was, under one table, a box of playbills from various plays and musicals he’d indulged in over the years. At the very bottom, a very dedicated excavator could find a tattered bill from _The Sound of Music_ , which Fell had seen exactly once and only barely managed to stop himself burning the playbill out of a sense of respect for the actors.

Many of the books in the shop were first editions, and of these Fell was most protective. He was baffled by how little people knew about the damage one’s natural oils could do to aging paper. But rather than disassemble his meticulously arranged displays to keep the books safely tucked away, Fell simply spent most of the time the shop was open doing his best to keep people at bay.

Fell had always wanted to open a bookshop. The very atmosphere in a room full of books echoed the cozy warmth he felt himself when reading a particularly good volume. The smell of ink on paper, both old and new, was nothing short of intoxicating. Several people had suggested Fell make his collection virtual, buy a reading device that could hold _thousands of books in the palm of your hand!_ Most of these people had meant well, noting how difficult it was for him to move his collection every time he moved house. Fell had simply nodded to acknowledge their point and never entertained the idea again. Instead, he’d found himself a wonderful place in Soho that included not only a perfectly placed shopfront right on the corner street, but a lovely little apartment right above.

Now, he could keep his collection and the bookshop aura together. The only problem was this: having a shopfront meant having a shop, presumably with hours and wares to sell. And so he’d endeavored to keep the most odd hours possible while still keeping up the cheerful shop appearance. The note in the door stated that the shop could open anywhere between 7 and 9 a.m. and usually closed around 5 p.m., depending on the weather, bank holidays, and Fell’s own schedule, which was subject to change at random. Mostly, it worked like a charm: he’d only had to part with a handful of books in the few months he’d been in business, a few novels he’d had less stock in and would hardly miss.

Everything was right as rain.

That is until a tall man in black leather and ridiculous sunglasses barged into the shop, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Fell looked up from his latest acquisition, glaring glarefully over the rim of his glasses. They helpfully slipped down the bridge of his nose just a bit to assist in the glare. When the intruder didn’t turn around, still staring out the little window in the door, Fell cleared his throat loudly.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The man finally turned around. He had a stock of red hair styled upwards as if he didn’t think he was quite tall enough and needed the extra inches. After a moment, the man lifted the sunglasses—some kind of novelty design made to look vaguely like goggles—to reveal bright eyes that looked almost golden in the slanted sunlight.

Fell glared harder. “Do you mind telling me why you’ve just locked _my_ door?”

The sunglasses were dropped back into place. “Ah, yes. Unsavory people out there. Needed to get away, didn’t figure they’d follow me in, but just in case.”

“What? You—don’t—” Fell sputtered and took off his glasses, resting them on the book in front of him. “You can’t just lead supposedly dangerous people into my shop!”

“That’s why I locked the door! Keep up, man.”

“Keep—?!” Fell pulled off his pristine, white protective gloves and set them next to the book. “I think you need to leave.”

It’s not easy to see someone emote behind such ridiculous glasses as the man was wearing, but somehow Fell could see the expression behind them quite clearly as the man went from belligerent to worried all at once.

“No, look, sorry I just… I just need a moment, just till those men are gone, and then I’ll be out of your hair, please…”

Fell crossed his arms. This was hardly appropriate, and while the man seemed sincere, it was quite a tale. He hadn’t been here long, but Soho didn’t quite seem like the kind of place where stalkers did their, well, stalking. At least not in broad daylight such as it was. And yet…

“Do you mean those men?” he asked, nodding at the door.

Sunglasses man turned to the door, glanced out for just a second, then fell immediately to the floor. He backed himself up against the door, pulling his legs in so that they couldn’t be seen from the window. As Fell watched, the two men came right up to the door, staring through the window pointedly. One was tall and gaunt, his face a bit grimey, and his hair more than a bit so. The other was shorter, but no less intimidating, long dreadlocks swinging and making wild shadows on the carpet.

Fell suddenly found something to do just behind the shop counter as they, in unison, raised their eyes to look his way. He did his best to be absolutely occupied, just out of sight of the door, and pretended not to hear when they knocked none too quietly.

Several moments passed while Fell crouched down, books in hand, ready to reappear miraculously should they… Would they try to force their way in? Was he in real danger? What had that crazy man gotten him into?

He gave a startled yelp and fell back onto the floor as a pair of bright eyes peaked over the counter.

“It’s all right,” said Sunglasses, setting said sunglasses up on his head. “They’ve gone.”

“Right,” said Fell. Then, more forcefully, “right then.” He stood, brushed dust off his coat, and set his hands on the counter on either side of his book. The previously peaceful setup, books, glasses, gloves, felt less so now. “Well, are you going to explain what just happened?”

Sunglasses made a face. “Nah, I’d better not. You’ll be better off not knowing.”

“Ah.” It was all Fell could think to say.

Sunglasses took another look out the window, then turned to Fell and offered him a hand. Fell took it carefully, as if there might have been something hidden just in the man’s palm that may yet be dangerous to him. In the end though, it was just a firm handshake.

“Thank you,” said the man. He met Fell’s eyes with a seriousness he wasn’t sure he quite understood. “You may very well have saved my skin just then. Much appreciated.”

“Um, yes, well… You’re welcome?”

The man smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling playfully. “The name’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Um.” Fell gestured vaguely with his free hand to the window where his own name was painted. “A.Z. Fell.”

“What’s the ‘A.Z.’ for?”

“What’s the ‘J.’ for?”

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “Better off not knowing.” He dropped Fell’s hand and sauntered back to the door. After one more quick look outside, he unlocked the door, flipped his sunglasses back down, and stepped out. “Thanks again!” he called back, and then he was gone.

Fell stared after him for several more minutes, hand still in the air, thinking to himself that he’d also wear sunglasses all the time if his own eyes were that startlingly, beautifully bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, for the love of... someone, if you like this, please bother me to post. I will forget. I will stare at written chapters until I hate them. Just annoy me, I'd appreciate it. <3


	2. How Many Words Until Date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to CottonGuardian, terrafied, and Random Guest #1 for the wonderful comments! You're the reason for the season!
> 
> Thanks also to ReginaTheBeena for not only the comment but for being a hella good beta reader. You're the reason for the... not-shitty parts of this story!

Crowley stared up at the building on the corner, brow crinkled under his sunglasses. He recognized the building itself, of course. It sprawled across the corner, the door almost out of sight until you were right on it. Or it had been, when under previous management. Mr. Fell had a slightly… brighter outlook on the place.

He took a step back (very nearly into traffic, as people lost in contemplation are wont to do), and returned pointedly to the designated path of pedestrian traffic after hearing an angry motorist almost run him over. He lifted the sunglasses. Dropped them back into place.

He _really_ didn’t remember this place being here, and that bothered him. Crowley prided himself on knowing things, especially things that went on in his city, but the appearance of a stuffy bookshop with an adorably stuffy owner had somehow escaped him. Had the man snuck in while Crowley was drunk? How long would that have taken? He wouldn’t have put it past himself to be out of sorts for a few days, maybe a week or two. He’d been known to sleep through quite a bit when the mood struck him, and the last few months had brought a few… less than pleasant surprises.

But a whole store? The windows were painted and everything! That had to have been a labor of love, and a labor of more than just a week of planning.

He spotted movement from inside and instinctively swung back around the corner out of sight. Then immediately felt silly, pressed against the wall outside a bookshop at 10 in the morning. What was he hiding from?

Crowley pushed himself up off the wall, ran one hand through his hair, put the other on the door, and paused. _Was that a new door handle? What kind of a madman actually changed door handles?_

He shook his head and went in.

No matter how recently the owner had been moving about the main room, he was gone now. There was hardly a trace of anyone having been in the shop at all. Which did not, Crowley noticed, diminish the usual cozy feel of a well-loved bookshop.

However, devoid of its owner, there was no one for Crowley to bother. Pity.

He took to wandering the shelves of surprisingly undusty tomes. That was the only word that could describe the huge, old volumes he’d found first. Were these dictionaries? Oh, no… upon closer inspection they seemed to be history books. _Boring._ He shuffled into the next isle.

The first thing his gaze alighted on here was a book of prophesy. Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Not what he’d been expecting. He plucked the book carefully off the shelf and opened to a random page, hoping to see something that would apply to himself, maybe a clue as to how this shop had appeared overnight without his knowledge. Instead, he found a short passage presumably predicting the fall of man via genetically modified foods. _Hmm._

The next one he picked up, several rows over, was a childrens’ book. Or, at least, it had seemed like one until he opened to a page where two of the three claymation style rabbits had been reduced to piles of blood-colored Play-Doh. Crowley looked up and around the room to assure himself that there were no cameras, and that he was in fact not being punk’d.

Finally, he wandered into an isle that was half sci-fi/fantasy, half religion. He glanced back and forth between the two, scanning spines and summaries. Did he prefer Death the horseman, or Death the farmer? Massive dog-headed gods, or tiny talking turtles? Satanic rites or equal rites?

A _THUNK_ from the back room startled Crowley out of his journey through the isle, so he grabbed a book at random from the top shelf and sauntered back to the counter as if he’d intended it that way all along.

He sat the book on the counter and waited, leaning intentionally casually, which became increasingly uncomfortable as the seconds passed without the appearance of the shop’s owner. What the hell was he doing back there? How was he supposed to wait on customers if he never showed up?

 _Hang on._ Crowley leaned back into a more comfortable position and began scanning the desktop. Books stacked on more books on top of folders full of papers that probably listed further books, pens and ink—real dip-the-pen-in ink!—safely away from said papers and books, a full clutter of things clearly organized by a madman and—there!

Crowley reached one long arm over the desk and gave the well-hidden but just not sneaky enough bell a solid ring.

* * *

There was a phrase on the tip of Fell’s tongue that outright refused to settle in his mind. All morning he’d been trying to remember it, something to do with evil? He bit his lip as he rearranged new arrivals in the back room. He stared at new titles—new relative to himself, of course, these books were quite old—hoping one of them would help pin down the words, but they continued to slide away, like a bright-eyed snake disappearing into the weeds.

That had something to do with it, he was sure. That man—Crowley—who’d startled him so badly he still hadn’t finished reading that lovely plant book a week later. Every time he opened it, a pair of shining golden eyes popped into his head… followed swiftly by a double pair of darker, more sinister ones.

 _Blast it what’s that phrase?!_ Fell all but growled at himself and threw down the book in his hand.

Immediately, he scooped the book back up and began muttering apologies. Books held on to emotions like ink held on to paper, Fell knew; they sunk in and stained, for better or worse, and he didn’t want these lovely pieces sullied by his own sour mood.

He set the book back in its box, patted it softly, and closed the box up. These could wait until tomorrow, he supposed. They certainly weren’t going anywhere now. Or ever, if he had his way.

As if in response, or rather in perfect opposition, to this thought, the bell on the counter in the main shop gave a quick and final _DING._

Horrified, Fell turned slowly towards the door to the other room. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. How long had they been there? Long enough to snoop around and find his cleverly hidden bell, apparently. And if they’d rung it… they knew he was back here. _Oh no._ What if it was those dreadful men from the other day? What if they knew he’d hidden Sunglasses—er, Crowley from them?

“Oh dear,” Fell whispered to himself.

Well. If they knew he was here already, there was hardly a point in hiding any longer. In fact, the longer he hid, the more suspicious it would be, right? All the proof they needed that he was up to something. And goodness knew what they’d do to his shop if they decided he was up to something… Or what they were doing now even as he stood there considering…

Fell swung around the corner so fast he nearly toppled into his own counter. The bell slid further into the shadows, and a small stack of paperbacks teetered precariously on the edge of the dark wood desktop as he caught himself and forced his eyes up, ready for total destruction.

The answer came to him, finally, in a flash of golden eyes.

“Oh,” said Fell more to himself than the man on the other side of the counter, “speak of the devil.”

“Excuse me?” One eyebrow lifted itself comically over the shining rim of the goggle-sunglasses.

“Ah. Nothing. Can I help you?”

 “I certainly hope so.” Crowley smiled wryly, lowering his glasses to stare pointedly at the further mess Fell had made. “I’m looking to make a purchase. This, uh…” He gestured to the book he’d picked up: something about the angelic rank and file of the Christian Church.

Fell barely glanced at it before shaking his head. “That one’s not for sale.”

“I see.” Crowley did not. He took another pointed look around the room, searching for a sign, a label, the smallest of price tags that might indicate a book that _was_ for sale. He found none.

“Well what about this one then?” he asked, taking the book off the top of the tipsy pile on the counter. Fell moved to catch and balance the rest as Crowley set his acquisition on top of his first attempt.

Fell sniffed. “No.”

“This one.” Out of a basket sitting in a cushioned chair.

“No.”

“Could you direct me please to the books that, are, in fact _for sale?_ ”

Fell crossed his arms and leaned forward onto the shining wood of the counter. Smooth as you like, he mirrored the frustrated look Crowley could feel settling onto his own face. And, without a hint of malice or humor, he said, “You’re better off not knowing.”

Some time ago, in his youthful years, Crowley had read a book. It was a good book, as far as he could remember, which was very little because that had been about the time he’d decided books were stupid and had gone for computers instead. However, he was fairly sure he remembered someone in that book mentioning that one only needed seven words to make someone fall in love with you.

Bollocks to that. Apparently it could be done with just five.

* * *

Fell liked to watch people. Outside the shop, it was a hobby he actively indulged in. He loved to see couples strolling down the street, hand in hand, matching each other’s pace, arms swinging. Mothers running after children running after dogs were another particular favorite: a parade of familial chaos.

In the shop, it was a sworn duty. Any person who came in was immediately a suspect, planning to commit the crime of taking a book home with them. Fell would watch them out of the corner of his eye, glaring quietly if they manhandled a particularly old book. Sometimes, he would glare outright, or in particularly bad circumstances would, not the least bit quietly, leave his post behind the counter and insist that the shop was closing early for… very official reasons.

Of all the watching he did, though, Fell had found that Crowley was the most fun to watch. Not because he did anything particularly entertaining—mostly what he did, especially while in the shop, was meander through the isles frowning at Fell’s books. He’d stopped bringing them up to the counter under the guise of trying to buy them, and now would choose one seemingly at random and pace in small circles, reading and frowning, until he lost interest.

There were two things about Crowley’s movement through the shop that caught Fell’s eye.

The first was simply the way he moved. After two days, Fell had decided that Crowley did not know how to use his hips. Rather more than two days later, he began to wonder if it weren’t intentional, or if perhaps it was some kind of condition, but didn’t want to ask.

Crowley’s hips swung like he was trying to slide through the world, not walk in it. And his head sometimes bobbed like a bird’s when he changed direction. When he’d gained some speed in his pacing, he twisted in a way that implied the man’s hips and shoulders were actively avoiding being on the same page.

The other thing that Fell couldn’t help but notice was how Crowley handled the books.

Though he seemed to pluck them from the shelves with abandon, he never pulled them by the dust covers, never dragged them across the edge of the shelf. And when he opened them, it was carefully, as if he didn’t want to crack the spines of even those that were long past cracking.

“Have you read all of these?” Crowley asked one day, perhaps a week after his first visit, balancing a book in each hand. Long fingers sprawled across the spines and covers, perfectly supporting them as bony thumbs held the pages in place.

“Yes, most of them. I read them as they come in.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Fell opened his mouth to give his stock answer. More than enough people asked, when you ran a bookshop, what you preferred, what you suggested, what your favorites might be, that he’d long stopped thinking about the answer and simply had a few general ones on hand, depending up on who was asking. But after taking a breath to give Crowley the answer he figured best suited him, a feeling came upon him that Crowley would know he was lying. Fell was as certain of this as he was certain that he didn’t know how to answer the question for real anymore.

“Ah,” he answered.

“Ahhh,” Crowley drawled, only slightly mockingly. “You can’t have read this many not found a favorite.”

“Well…”

“Or maybe that’s the problem? You’ve read too many and now you can’t choose.”

That was closer to the truth, but not quite the crux of it. Fell struggled to find the words to explain the situation, how much he loved books as a whole, as a general idea, but was less attached to any book in particular. He opened his mouth again, but was saved from the imminent tripping over his own tongue when a small boy rushed into the shop, skidding to a stop just in front of the counter.

“D’you have any New Aquarium books?”

“Um, the nature section—”

“No, wait, hold on.” The boy held up a hand and his face scrunched up comically as he thought.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Fell frowned and waited for the boy to continue.

A moment later, the boy’s face lit up, then morphed into the most serious expression Fell had ever seen on any human being, let alone a child. It was spooky. “New _Aquarians_ , please.”

“Oh, my boy, I’m afraid I don’t carry that particular magazine.”

The boy’s face remained clear of emotion. He waited.

“I do—that is—there’s a mythology and new age science section—” He waved a hand in the direction of the section in particular.

The boy’s face lit up again and Fell was relieved to see there was still a normal child under the terrifying expression from before. “Wicked, thanks!” He charged towards the back of the room, blond curls bouncing with each bounding step.

The moment he was out of sight, an older gentleman tripped into the shop, hair and glasses askew. “Adam! Come back here right now! Oh.” He noticed Fell and Crowley at the counter. “Sorry gents, just lost my son a moment ago.”

“Young vagrant with the curls?” asked Crowley. “He’s back that-a-way getting a proper education.”

The man looked back in the direction Crowley had indicated, his face going red. “Proper education indeed, probably digging through dirty novels as we speak…”

The man, who seemed all the more imposing now for his sudden embarrassment, took one lumbering step forward and Fell saw his collection flash before his eyes.

“Sir, to be sure, he’s not looking at anything, ah… untoward.”

The man stopped, looked Fell up and down, and seemed to decide he was telling the truth. How could he not be, all stuffed in cloud-colored tartan, tugging his bowtie nervously? Adam’s father sighed deeply as if he’d come to terms with the fate of never quite knowing what his son was up to.

Fell, having watched more than enough families frolic and fight in the park, picked up on the resignation immediately, and moved to reassure the poor man. “He really is just looking at the mythology books. You know, gods starting wars, pulling coins off the moon and whatnot. He seemed rather interested in more, er, educational topics.”

“Oh?” Adam’s father nodded. “He’s got into some strange interests lately. But I guess I can’t blame him. He’s a kid after all, eh? Was he at least polite when he came in? Ran in ahead of me, left me outside to tie up the dog…”

“Oh, he was very polite,” Fell said with a smile. “Perfect little a-angel.”

Crowley snapped the books shut, startling both Fell and the doomed father.

“Interesting…”

Before Fell could ask what Crowley meant, the boy, Adam, rushed across the room, three large books wrapped in his arms.

“Dad, can I get these? I’ve got to get these ones.”

His father frowned. “We talked about this. I said _one_ book today.”

“Aw, dad, come on, it’s my birthday!” He didn’t so much pout as revert to the oddly serious expression from before. This did not, Fell noticed with some level of satisfaction, seem to affect the boy’s father the way it had affected him, and after a moment the expression dropped back into something more pleading. “Okay, okay, two then?”

Adam’s father nodded. “Fine. You still have to choose one to put back, then.” He looked at Fell with a satisfied huff, which broke the stop owner out of his stupor.

“L-let me make sure the ones you want are, ah, available then,” he said, leaning over the counter to take the small stack from the boy.

Adam considered the books, then handed two over to Fell and hurried back to the isle from which he’d taken them, presumably to put the last one back. Fell made a note to check later to ensure it had been put away properly.

He turned his attention to the boy’s selections. The first was a common book of Greek myths, one Fell had bought ages ago only because he hadn’t by that point collected much of anything in the way of Greek myths yet and felt the need. He’d since upgraded to better examples of the Greek pantheon and felt it wouldn’t hurt too much to see this one go. The other book was not actually myths, or even from the same section. It was a children’s book about rabbits. Fell remembered picking this one up on the suggestion of another collector who assured him it was a beloved retelling of a classic story with a twist Fell would just love! The twist seemed to be that everyone died at the end. It was arguably graphic, even though the characters were all made of clay and therefore, even in death, were no more disturbing than a small child’s craft creation.

He nodded and made a note in one of several ledger books on the desk. “These will be fine. Do you have cash? I’m afraid my card machine is down.”

Adam’s father nodded and pulled out his wallet. Adam returned, curls bouncing, just in time to see his dad hand off the money. He pulled the books back off the counter, shouted a quick “Thank you!” in Fell’s general direction, and was back out the door as quickly as he’d come in. His father waved his thanks and hurried out after him.

Fell breathed a sigh of relief. All in all, not a bad interaction. Lucky the boy had only gone for the low-hanging fruit. Boys his age were known to grab the biggest, most expensive-looking books they could carry just for the sheer look of them, or else run their grubby fingers through anything that looked like it might have a hint of erotica in it.

 _Nice boy_ , Fell concluded.

“Angel.”

Fell started, dropping the money and nearly knocking over his little bottle of ink.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why’s that word bother you so much, hmm?”

Fell’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “It doesn’t. You just surprised me is all. Are you going to try to buy those?” He indicated the two books in Crowley’s hands.

“Are you going to try to sell them to me?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

Fell bent to pick up the fallen cash, and when he straightened again, Crowley was leaning over the counter, reading his ledger.

“Good lord man, how do you live off this? You barely make two sales a week!”

“That’s on a bad week…” Fell straightened the bills and set them primly in the register.

“But you do _actually_ sell books,” Crowley observed.

“Obviously.”

“Then why won’t you sell any to me?”

There, that was almost a proper pout, but Fell could tell it wasn’t the least bit sincere by the way Crowley’s mouth seemed to be trying very hard not to pull into a smile. He tilted his head and said with every ounce of faux sympathy he could muster, “Oh, are you upset the boy got that rabbit book before you?”

The almost-pout dropped. “No, of course not—”

“I’ve seen you reading it. Multiple times. You must be devastated it’s gone now.”

“Tch. Cheeky bastard.”

Fell smiled innocently.

It was the smile that did him in. Crowley had been prepared to bother the living hell out of his new friend until he could get to the crux of the angel thing—he’d seen the other man’s smile tick downwards ever so slightly when he’d spoken the word, small but glaringly noticeable from Crowley’s perspective—but the innocent smile, just short of shit-eating grin, blew Crowley’s train of thought right off the tracks.

“D’you want to get some lunch?” he asked.

“What?”

Crowley did his best _not_ to scramble, but thought the image was rather ruined when he practically fumbled the books in his hands. Once he’d stopped them both hitting the floor and sat them safely on the counter, he cleared his throat and continued.

“Well, it is nearly 2. That’s practically closing time, isn’t it? May as well shut up shop a little early, grab something to eat.”

He hated the way his voice climbed half an octave as he spoke. It betrayed exactly how much hope he was holding onto in that moment. Luckily, Fell didn’t seem to notice.

“I am a bit peckish, now that you mention it.” Fell nodded and turned towards the back room. “Let me just lock up here. May I ask where we’re going?”

“Oh, um…” Crowley scrolled through his mental Rolodex looking for a place he thought would suit Fell’s tastes. Though to be fair, he had no idea what the man’s taste in food was. If it was anything like his taste in books, it could be anything at all.

 _That’s it._ “I know just the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far! If you like it, please bother me to update. Forget that "authors don't owe readers anything" stuff, pretend I'm in massive word debt to you, send the fic mafia to my house, I have literally NO SENSE OF SELF ACCOUNTABILITY HELP.


	3. Are There Snakes in this Drink?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to terrafied (again <3), jam, and Mary_Nine for the wonderful comments! I hope you're all having a fantastic day!
> 
> And the rest of you can thank ReginaTheBeena for once again making sure this mess is real words, and not the scramble it is when I first write it down. :)

“Well, I _did_ know a place…”

Fell watched Crowley circle the entrance—or what had been an entrance until recently—of a small pub. It was now boarded up, the entire front walled in by freshly painted sheets of wood. And, in case the enclosure wasn’t enough indication of its own purpose, large signs every few feet read, “CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION. _Sorry for the inconvenience!”_ The construction company’s logo shined metallic sky blue in between the two statements.

“Sorry indeed,” muttered Crowley. “Bastards.”

Fell glanced at the signs, confirming his own suspicions, and hummed noncommittally.

“Well, my idea’s shot.” Crowley spun on his heel, coat swinging, hips facing Fell just a fraction of a second before the rest of him. “Your turn to pick. Still my treat, anywhere you want to go.”

Fell’s eyes slid from Crowley’s glasses, catching the glare of the sun dramatically, back to the similarly blinding signs on the pub. Something about them was off. He leaned to the right to see around Crowley. Crowley leaned it the same directly blocking his view yet again.

“Fell, are you listening—”

“Does that have your name on it?”

“Hmm?”

Fell pointed at one of the signs, the bottom of which was slightly longer than the rest. Upon closer inspection, one could barely see a bit of paper stuck under the sign, the word “Crawley” written in thin, scrawling script along the edge.

Fell stepped forward to pull it out, but Crowley blocked his way just as he’d blocked his view; Fell blinked, and the paper was in Crowley’s hand. He unfolded the single sheet and scanned the words. Fell could just about see the man’s eyes darting back and forth under the sunglasses. Then, having read the short message, Crowley promptly crumpled the paper and dropped it into the street.

“Wait, what was that?” Fell asked, pointing to the ball of paper as it rolled into the gutter.

“Nothing. Come on, where are we going?” Crowley made his way down the street without waiting for an answer.

“But…” Fell glanced between Crowley and the paper, bothered. He didn’t generally make an effort to pick up every bit of trash he saw, but watching Crowley litter and not doing anything about it was almost as bad as having done it himself. He snatched the paper out of the gutter, shoved it into a pants pocket, and hurried after his friend.

* * *

“Oh, no, no, I don’t do raw fish.”

Fell tried valiantly not to pout. By the look on Crowley’s face, he was failing spectacularly. The first place he’d thought of, once he’d caught up to Crowley, and his thoughts had caught up to them both, was his favorite sushi restaurant, just a few blocks away from the shop. They had the most delicious assortment of rolls, and in his time in town, Fell had discovered four in particular that he liked the most. Even better, the chef knew him and his order by heart already, and had begun preparing the rolls as soon as Fell and Crowley had come through the door.

“You don’t have to do raw fish,” Fell argued as they found a seat at the polished wood bar. “They have this lovely fried eel roll, fully cooked and topped with _absolute best_ spicy mayo sauce. Or, they have vegetable options…”

“You had me at ‘spicy.’ I’ll have whatever’s spicy.” Crowley picked up the two-sided menu and began to browse. His eyebrows shot up over the rims of his glasses—he’d made no move to take them off, despite the dim lighting in the restaurant—and a wide smile crept onto his face. “Ah, my favorite: the alcohol section.” He peeked over the menu at Fell. “What’s good for drinking here?”

“Oh!” Fell clapped his hands together excitedly. “The sake here is wonderful! The brand they have is absolutely perfect, without that weird sweetness some kinds have, do you know what I mean?”

Crowley shook his head, still smiling. “I do not. But since you’re the connoisseur here, you tell me if we should have it warm or cold.” He tapped the menu where the options were laid out in slanted script.

“Oh, warm, without a doubt. They serve it in this lovely little bowl setup that keeps it warm, and the heat does something _amazing_ to the flavor—”

“Ah!” Crowley held up a hand. “Better to show than tell with drinks.”

Fell laughed, was surprised to find he was comfortable enough to laugh. “Quite right.”

* * *

Crowley, for all his enjoyment of various alcoholic concoctions, had not, before this night, felt the need to give sake a try. But somewhere between Fell’s delighted, dimpled smile and large bottle that contained not only alcohol, but a large, fanged snake, Crowley had decided it was high time he gave the stuff a try.

The drink was served in small, round glasses. Fell had to stop Crowley from drinking them as shots—sake was meant to be sipped, he said. Crowley considered them shots regardless of how slowly he was taking them. Two shots in, Crowley decided he liked sake. Four in, and he’d decided he rather liked warm sake paired with spicy, fried sushi. Rather more than five shots in, he decided he liked everything about this place: the food, the décor, and especially the rosy-cheeked man beside him who was, at the moment, gesturing excitedly as he explained the makeup of the restaurant’s non-sushi dishes, mostly in English, but occasionally in accented Japanese.

“Where’d you l-learn—” Crowley paused, tried again. “Learn to speak Japanese?”

“Books, my dear!” Fell said brightly. “And the occasional internet video. And, of course, Masakura-san is kind enough to let me practice on him.”

The chef gave a quick nod as he passed by behind the bar.

“That’s… wait, what was it you were saying before?”

“Ah…” Fell tapped his fingers on the polished wood. “I was saying… ah… Dolphins!”

Crowley’s hand slapped down flat on top of Fell’s. “Yes, dolphins! You can’t—they don’t—dolphin’s not a proper fish, is it?”

“No, but that doesn’t—people will eat anything!”

“Obviously!”

“Butts—”

Crowley laughed through the last sip of sake in his cup. Fell’s face scrunched, all of his features briefly pulling in towards his nose. Crowley had the sudden urge to reach out and tap that nose, right on its rosy tip.

Fell tried again, enunciating each word carefully. “But. That’s. Not. The. Point. It’s illegal. Which makes it… against the law.”

Crowley nodded, taking in this sage wisdom and filing it away, likely to be forgotten with his next drink. Speaking of which…

“The… um… is the drink called fish?”

“Oh, no my dear, the drink is ‘sake.’ Fish is ‘sakana.” Fell tapped one of the complicated Japanese characters on the menu.

“Well, whatever it’s called, we’ve drunk the lot.”

Fell looked sadly at the small bottle, which was, indeed, empty. Then, much to Crowley’s relief, though he wasn’t entirely sure why it made his chest feel lighter, Fell’s smile returned with a vengeance.

“I have,” Fell said, all toothy, smug smile, “the most delightful selection of wine back at the shop. If you liked this, you’re sure to like my latest acquisition, it’s simply to die for!”

Crowley tilted his head, just slightly. “That sounds _heavenly_.”

They both grimaced at the last word, though neither man was quite quick enough to catch the reaction on the other’s face.

* * *

Fell was not in the habit of inviting people back to the shop. Nor was he, come to think of it, in the habit of shutting the shop down early to go _out_ to lunch, either. He was significantly more likely to shut down early to have lunch by himself whilst curled up in the back room of the shop, often with a new book and, of course, a glass of wine with an assortment of nicely paired snacks.

He pondered this briefly on the way back to the shop. He pondered it again as he opened the door to let Crowley inside, and as he locked the door behind them. The stopped pondering long enough to wonder why Crowley was rummaging through the Law section of the shop, and was done pondering much of anything by the time the two of them were sat down on the back room’s small, but plush couch, a glass of shimmering red wine each.

“The point is,” Crowley said, gesturing with both the book of legal notes and his wine glass, “the point is… that there’s nothing about dolphins in this book.”

Fell nodded seriously. “That’s a family law book, dear.”

“Ah.” Crowley gave the book a long look, frowning as if it had disappointed him, then set it on the table with a _thunk._ “Why d’you have these, anyway? You can’t be reading _law books_ for _fun_?”

Fell looked at the book thoughtfully. “It’s more of… It’s more the… It’s aesthetics,” he admitted, both to Crowley and himself. “It looks nice and imposing on the shelf.”

Crowley laughed. No, he did not laugh; he giggled drunkenly, raising his sunglasses to the top of his head and giving Fell a look he couldn’t quite decipher, though, he realized belatedly, that may have been because he was once again distracted by the golden shine of Crowley’s eyes. It was a shame, he thought, that they were behind the sunglasses so often.

Crowley finished giggling and downed the last of his wine. He used the glass once again to gesture at Fell. “Angel, your ‘aesthetic’ isn’t hardly affected by a single fancy-looking law book!”

Fell felt his own face twitch slightly, out of habit, as he reached for the wine bottle to refill Crowley’s glass. Crowley held it steady, the stillest he’d been all night Fell realized, but it still took more concentration than he’d expected to ensure the liquid landed in the glass. When he’d accomplished the task, Fell set the bottle back on the table and was startled to find that when he looked up again, Crowley was still looking at him steadily, wine glass held aloft.

“W-what?”

“Okay. Sssspill”

“Did—did you just lisp?”

“Happens when I’m drunk, don’t change the sssubject. Tell me why ‘angel’ bothers you so much.”

Fell shifted his gaze from Crowley’s. Much like pouring the wine, it took more effort than he’d expected it to. “If you must know it’s… It’s to do with my family…”

“Ahh,” Crowley drawled, taking a quick sip of his wine. “Religious lot, are they?”

“They like to pretend to be,” Fell scoffed. “But no, not exactly. It’s, er, my name.”

“What’s your name? The A stands for ‘angel’?!”

Fell’s head hung low, and he stared pointedly into his wine glass as he said, “Aziraphale.”

“Bless you.”

Fell laughed, suddenly, loudly, and Crowley joined in a moment later, realizing the gist of his own joke. The two were caught in a fit of giggles for several minutes, stopping only when Fell shifted his glass too quickly and nearly spilled the contents onto the floor. He set the glass on the table soundly and leaned back on the couch, catching his breath.

“No,” he started again. “That’s my name. Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale what?”

“What?”

“Well…” Crowley paused to down half his wine before setting his glass next to Fell’s on the table. “The A is for Aziraphale; what’s the Z for?”

“Oh, they’re both for Aziraphale. I don’t actually have a middle name.”

Crowley’s brows rose. “You’re kidding. I am incredibly jealousss.”

Fell leaned forward, resting a hand on the couch between them. “Your turn then: spill. What are the A and J for?”

“Well, the A’s for Anthony, and the J’s for…” Crowley huffed. “Doesn’t matter, I like going by Crowley best anyway.”

“Now, that’s not sporting of you,” Fell insisted. “I shared mine, now you share yours!”

“Oh, no, you don’t want to—”

“But I do—”

“It’s really ssstupid—”

“Worse than Aziraphale?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Crowley, who had been lounging as much as the small couch would allow, sat up at that, brows pulling together in consternation, a challenge in his eyes. “I wouldn’t lie to you, angel.”

“Well then,” said Fell, meeting that challenge with his own, “you’d better prove it to me, or I’ll consider you a liar from now on.”

“Bastard.”

Fell smiled, all angelic smarm.

Crowley briefly buried his face in his hands and mumbled something Fell didn’t quite catch.

“What was that, dear?”

“It’s… Jesus…”

“Jesus?”

“God, no, I wish. It’s… The J is for… Janthony.”

Fell stared at him levelly, looking for a hint of a joke. Crowley peeked at him between long fingers, cheeks red as anything. Not a joke then.

“That. Crowley that’s not a real name…”

“I know! Which is why I hate my blasted father so much for giving it to me!”

“He can’t have been serious.”

“Oh? You tell that to my birth certificate, maybe it will sssort itself out.” Crowley’s hands fell from his face and Fell was amazed to find his eyes shone even brighter when surrounded by a blush.

“You know,” he said, a memory worming its way back into his mind, “I had a friend in school once.”

“Just one? I don’t believe you.”

Fell shook his head. “Focus, I’m trying to be helpful. Her surname was Titus, and she told me the story once of how her father had tried very hard to talk her mother into naming her Heppa.”

“Like… Peppa, the pig?”

“Not quite.”

The two sat in silence for a moment while Crowley’s drunken mind processed the information. Fell could pinpoint the exact moment the got it: he smiled, all teeth behind red lips, and laughed heartily, leaning sideways onto the couch as if he might just fall over with amusement.

“That’s… Haha… You’re right, that may be just about worse.”

“See?” Fell laughed a little at Crowley’s reaction. “It’s not all bad.”

Crowley sighed. “No. But it’s a shame my father wasn’t as easy to sssway out of a bad decision as hers.”

“Indeed, mine as well.” Fell rolled his eyes. “My whole family has the angel names going on. It’s a tradition on my father’s side of the family.”

“That’s awful, angel.” Crowley frowned and rubbed at his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding him up on the couch. “Sorry, I can actually ssstop saying that if you like.”

Fell thought about it a moment. He decided he would _not_ like. “It’s, um. It’s fine, dear.”

“Hmm. At least it’s not Janthony, eh?” Crowley said, meeting Fell’s eyes again with a crooked smile.

“D’you know what?” Fell rested his hand on Crowley’s. “I rather like it. And really, the more people you tell something like that, the less they’ll believe you. It can be your own personal inside joke.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone else I’d like to tell,” Crowley said quietly.

Crowley’s hand was very cold, Fell realized, and he thought he’d rather like to take it between both of his own to fix that. Only he’d have to move to accomplish the task, and that would require halting his current examination of the varying shades of brown and gold in Crowley’s eyes, and he didn’t particularly want to stop doing _that_ , so he settled for wrapping one hand around Crowley’s and leaning slightly closer to get a better look at the colors…

The bell over the door to the shop rang loudly, and Fell frowned, annoyed that a customer would bother coming in just now.

Only.

It was late.

And…

“Didn’t you lock that door?” Crowley asked.

The bell rang again, and both men jumped to their feet, listening. No other sounds came from the main room of the shop, not footsteps or the rustling of pages or the falling of bookshelves, the last of which was a sound Fell knew well from his nightmares.

After a moment, Crowley crept slowly, silently, to the door into the main shop.

“There’s no one here,” he said after a moment’s examination of the room. He strode through the doorway, heading towards the counter.

“Crowley, be careful!” Fell followed after him, wishing he had something akin to a weapon to take along.

“Not to worry,” said Crowley, strolling back into he shop from the storage room behind the counter. “No one in there, either. Whoever it was must have realized you’d shut up shop and left.”

“Yes, must’ve been.” Fell looked warily at the front door, which he was fairly sure he’d locked when they’d come in.

“You want me to, um, stick around? Help make sure they didn’t take anything.”

Fell shook his head, his stomach tightening in worry. “No. No, thank you, I’d better do it myself. I know best where everything is… or should be…”

Crowley nodded, his mouth pulling into a small frown. “Right. Right then.” He moved back behind the counter and scribbled something with one of Fell’s pens. He then picked up the sheet of paper—a scrap piece, not one from his ledgers, Fell was relieved to see—and shook it to dry the ink before handing it to Fell.

Fell stared dumbly at the set of numbers, waiting for them to resolve themselves.

“My number,” Crowley clarified. Fell looked up to see he’d made it back to the door, one hand already reaching to open it. “Call me if you need… anything, I guess.” He said the last bit with a shrug, and pulled his glasses back over his eyes. Fell didn’t bother mentioning that it was dark out, that he didn’t need them, that he ought to keep them off.

“Thank you,” he said instead. “Um. Get home safely.”

“Hmm,” Crowley replied, distracted. “G’night, angel.”

He swung out the door and into the night, the bell over the door ringing loudly in his absence.

Fell walked around the counter, paper still in hand, with every intention of copying it into one of his ledger books. He didn’t have a proper address book, but there were a number of collectors and contacts he liked to keep on hand, and he was likely to forget if he didn’t copy it down now.

In moving around the books on the desk, Fell shifted the not-so-well-hidden bell and spied the corner of a small card peeking out from under it. Curious, he pulled the card free. It was a plain, white index card, one from his own desk drawers, with a short message scrawled across it in what he was sure was his own ink, but not his own handwriting.

It read:

_Tell Crawley we’re waiting._

Fell’s blood ran cold. He recognized the script now, as well as the odd spelling of the name. He slowly pulled the paper from earlier that day out of his pocket, smoothed it out, and read:

_Meet us tomorrow. Usual place._

_You can’t hide forever, Crawley._

The men, the ones Crowley had been hiding from. They’d known he’d try and go to the shuttered pub. And now they’d been in the shop. They were looking for Crowley and knew he’d been here, often, recently. Fell dropped both messages on top of the page with Crowley’s number.

“Oh dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch that shameless self-insert? Thank goodness for my mother...
> 
> Time for the traditional bullying of the author. Go! I live to be bothered!


	4. The Plot Chickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for this? Oh good, because I'm not.
> 
> Many thanks to Mary_Nine and jam for coming back for more! Further thanks to SofterLips, Lovecyder, Taboo_writter, Midnight Marley, InsectUrForum, CalamityBean, acurran93, FisherTaiga, mimityty, Orchidaexa, Tamanegi, and catey for the wonderful comments. You're the reason there are more words than ever before! Thanks for being amazing!!
> 
> And, thanks as always to the brilliant ReginaTheBeena for taking the time (lots of time, this is a long one) to beta read and fix this story up right!

When Crowley slept, he did not just sleep: he _slumbered._ On nights—or rather, early mornings—like these, he flopped face-first onto his bed and sauntered directly into the arms of Morpheus, like a beloved child coming home for Christmas.

On a normal night, his dreams were vivid, though he never woke up with more than an inkling of what they’d been about. He woke with feelings rather than memories: deep loss, sorrow, anger, or, on rare nights, peace.

Crowley had been startled, not unpleasantly, to find that he’d been waking with more of the latter recently. The last few weeks in particular, since he’d been hanging around the bookshop, he’d woken more peacefully than he could ever remember.

Tonight—this morning—he figured that would not be the case.

He had not gone straight home after leaving the shop. Crowley stayed nearby, just out of sight, until he’d heard the shop’s door lock again, hopefully for good. He tried the knob himself to be sure, then examined the lock, the door’s frame. Not a scratch, though he hadn’t really expected any. The two he knew were responsible for the break-in weren’t much for leaving evidence.

And they were probably still nearby.

Crowley walked the length of the street, crossing to the other side and back several times. He circled the block. Wandered the alleys nearby. Not a sound. Not a single other person on the street. Which was more startling than if he’d run into the usual fellow night wanderers.

And then he realized…

He passed by the pub he’d nearly taken Fell to: closed for construction.

He walked down a few blocks, turned the corner to a popular bar, one he’d frequented himself for a few months: closed for construction.

The gay bar down the road. The seedy little hole-in-the wall behind the apartments. Hell, even the liquor shops between the park and the fairway: all closed, and under construction.

It wasn’t his company’s logo on the signs, but each and every site had his colleagues’ fingerprints all over it.

The men themselves were nowhere to be seen. And neither was anyone else.

_Meet us tomorrow,_ the note had said. Well, if they weren’t showing themselves anymore tonight, then there wasn’t much that could be done. If they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t be.

So, Crowley went home, flopped into bed, and dreamed unpleasant dreams.

* * *

Fell woke early the next morning, having not slept much at all. He’d spent much of the night locking and re-locking the door to the shop, in and out of bed checking windows, even those on the second floor. Finally, he’d reached the point of exhaustion that would not let him move another muscle and retired to bed. He spent another hour or so awake, sure, _absolutely sure_ that he heard someone at the door, just outside the shop, preparing to break in again. It was a surprise to him when he opened his eyes that the sun had come up just the same as any other day, though his peace had been shattered entirely.

He did not open the shop. People wandered by, a few looking in the windows curiously, but no one knocked, and no one forced their way in.

The two notes and Crowley’s phone number still sat on the desk, as bothersome as any cluster of customers. They, as much as the break-in itself, had kept him awake.

Fell did not have the slightest idea where “the usual place” might be. And though he did have a rather direct way of finding out, he was sure Crowley wouldn’t just share that kind of information if Fell called him and asked. Given the nature of the men taunting Crowley—taunting both of them, now—he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

And yet.

He wanted to help. It was clear Crowley was in some kind of trouble; that much had been obvious from his first visit to the shop. But what kind of trouble? And if Fell knew Crowley was in trouble, could he really, in good conscience, not make an effort to help?

_No,_ he thought, _I really must do something._

However, there were quite a few steps between deciding to do something and figuring out what that something was.

He considered for just a second calling his family. They had a habit of knowing how to find the right people. These people were about as wrong as it got in Fell’s opinion, but his family would be able to find them just as easily, nonetheless.

But, no. They were good at finding people because they were absolutely zealous at whatever task they put their minds to. Maybe too zealous for something like this. The last thing Fell wanted to do was get Crowley into _more_ trouble.

Fell flipped through his list of contacts, considering. Who would be able to help him find…

_Oh._ His eyes alighted on a name and number scribbled sideways in the margins of the page, not in his own handwriting like the rest because they’d been written by their owner with an angular scrawl.

He carried the book to his phone, a beautiful old rotary, and dialed the number. It only rang once.

“Anathema,” he said, feeling every ounce of relief his voice betrayed, “I have a… I need your help.”

* * *

Crowley woke slowly. It wasn’t the sun that woke him—blackout curtains ensured not a bit of sunlight reached his bedroom unless he really, truly wanted it to. And, being on the top floor of the building, he could be reasonably sure it wasn’t any sound that woke him, either.

He turned over, feeling as if his stomach had been filled with rocks while he slept. Punishment for a wolf who had not been out hunting in weeks.

Who didn’t want to hunt anymore.

He slid out of bed and dragged himself to the shower. The cleansing heat did nothing to relieve the pressure in his stomach. The discomfort remained as he got dressed, watered his plants and gave them a good, stern talking to, and made the strongest cup of tea he could manage.

It wasn’t until he glanced at the clock in his office, saw it was nearly 3 p.m., knew he had to go, that he finally realized that the feeling stuck in his stomach, weighing him down, was fear.

 

Crowley stepped through the plastic sheeting covering what many supposed would one day be a wall. He doubted that would ever really come to fruition—construction could take months, years, and who knows what kind of tragedy could befall the site by then? But certainly, it was a good façade for less-than-scrupulous people to meet and plan less-than-scrupulous plans.

The three of them had been meeting here for over a year, since they’d set their sights on the shops of Soho. The idea had been to upgrade, bring in fresh, new clientele by bulldozing what they could and rebuilding a newer, significantly more expensive Soho on the rubble.

It had sounded like fun at the start. Before Crowley realized the kind of toll it could have.

As he pushed through another layer of plastic into another “room,” he heard the distorted sound of familiar voices. Something about them bothered him, and he made himself take off his glasses and slip them into his jacket pocket.

“Hatter!” he called; he wasn’t in the mood for code names today, the feeling in the pit of his stomach still lingering, even worsening with every step. “Lightburn! Where are you, bastards, I know you’ve been looking for me. Let’s get this done with, yeah? I’ve got things to do today.”

It was with a feigned and strained nonchalance that he pushed through the last layer of plastic into the main room where his associates stood surrounded by the usual few chairs and lamps that kept the otherwise unfinished room at the center of the unfinished building lit.

They were not alone.

“Hello, Crowley,” said possibly the only voice Crowley wanted to hear less than Hatter or Lightburn’s.

The room went dark.

* * *

Fell took a series of buses out to Tadfield. Terrified of the way cab drivers drove these days, he traded speed for comfort, and stared out the window at the scenic view as they passed out of the city.

He couldn’t help but love just how beautiful Tadfield was this time of year. Well, most times of year, in fact. The area tended to have abnormally, well, _normal_ weather, which made it ideal for children craving a hot, sunny summer, or for witches looking to cast their spells on blustery autumn evenings.

Anathema had assured him she didn’t really do that. Windy nights weren’t right for spells at all.

Fell hopped off the bus and walked briskly towards Jasmine Cottage. The garden was, as always, impeccably tended, no doubt by Newt, who made up for his innate inability to work any kind of electric technology whatsoever by coaxing every plant within a mile to grow with gusto. Fell paused on his way in to smell the roses—literally, as he liked to do when visiting the cottage. They were lovely, but they did nothing to dispel the anxious feeling building in Fell’s chest.

The door to the cottage opened almost before Fell had a chance to knock.

“Come in, come in,” Anathema said, waving him in and immediately retreating from the door.

Fell followed, closing the door soundly behind him, and found Anathema had already set herself up in what Newt liked to call her “Research Mode.” This meant the dining room table was strewn with index cards, pens in all colors, and notebooks full of hand-written paragraphs detailing one event or another Anathema had found interesting, weird, or in some cases, _too normal to be left alone._

Fell’s anxiety eased somewhat at the sight.

“Okay, sit down,” Anathema said, waving Fell into a chair. She sat across from him, rested her chin on her hands, and nodded. “Go on, tell me everything you know.”

“Well, to begin with…” Fell pulled the two notes from his bag and handed them over. Anathema examined them, began comparing them to the index cards and books. “The first was found at a construction site, and the second was left directly on my desk. They had to break in to leave it.”

“Hmm,” Anathema hummed thoughtfully. “And you’re certain it’s the same men who were following your friend around?”

“As certain as one can be, certainly. I don’t know of anyone else who would want to sneak into my bookshop to leave threatening notes.”

“What construction site?”

“Hmm?”

Anathema looked up from the cards. “Which construction site? There’s a ton around you these days, where did you find the note?”

“Oh, it was at a… well, it _had been_ a pub until recently.”

“And the construction company?”

Fell felt his own mouth twitch up uncomfortably as he said, “YHWH Construction.”

Anathema put the cards down. “Oh. Oh, you don’t think they could be…”

“No.” Fell shook his head. “They’ve nothing to do with this, I’m sure. I think it was just because that particular pub was one that Crowley frequented. And they knew that.”

“Ah,” said Anathema in a way that sounded like she didn’t believe him, but she was nice enough not to say anything directly. “We’d best get to work then. What did these men look like?”

“Hello!” called a voice as the front door swung open. “I’m home!”

“Glad you’re not dead!” Anathema returned, still looking at Fell, waiting for an answer.

“Hello, Newt,” Fell added with a quick glance back at the man in question. “Um, the men. Two of them. One’s on the tallish side, one a bit shorter… Ah, on either end of my height if that helps,” he added, seeing Anathema’s incredulous look. “The tall one had yellow-ish hair, and the other had dark dreadlocks, and both of them were really quite a mess, just downright spooky, glaring in the shop window like sharks set loose in an aquarium…”

“Both these men have dark, beady eyes like sharks too?”

Fell and Anathema looked at Newt, who had situated himself on the kitchen counter, one of the few spaces without something on it.

“They did,” Fell said.

Newt nodded. “You can put all that away, then. I know exactly who they are. And I can tell you where to find them.”

 

It was worse than Fell had expected.

Newt had explained to the best of his ability how he knew the two men in question. They went by Hastur and Ligur, ridiculous, devilish names to match their company’s: PWCCA Construction. Direct competitor to YHWH Construction, whom Fell had been desperately hoping had nothing to do with this.

And maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was just by chance the two demons had left their note under a competitor’s sign.

Newt had explained, however, that it certainly wasn’t by chance that they’d been in Soho so often. Their projects, tearing down and rebuilding buildings at an alarming rate, often coincided and even interrupted Newt’s own projects, which often included building parks and greenspaces in crowded areas.

Yes, he knew them. And he warned Fell more than once that they were not to be trifled with.

_I’m not trifling,_ thought Fell as he made his way to the address Newt had given him. _I’m performing a good deed. Checking in on a friend. Making sure that friend is still around for drinks tomorrow._

He was not encouraged by the site of the unfinished building he came upon. He looked at the address written in Newt’s clean, curved handwriting, and back up to the large, red UNDER CONSTRUCTION sign several times to make sure he was at the right place. He was, unfortunately.

Fell shook his head. He needed to buck up. This was no time to be fretting unnecessarily. There might not even be anything particularly bad going on in that building, shady though it may seem. And even if there were… He needed to be sure Crowley was all right.

He took a deep breath, and crossed the street to the building.

“Aziraphale!”

Fell froze mid-stride.

_Shit._

He turned, wide smile plastered on his face, and called back, “Gabriel! How nice to see you!”

“And you!” Gabriel strode across the cracked pavement, his shining shoes flashing in the sunlight, very nearly as bright as his bleached white smile. He held out his hands and Fell obediently stood for a tight hug. “What are you doing out here? Not finally getting into the spirit of the family business, are you?” he asked hopefully. Fell wondered briefly how one could smile that widely without being in pain.

“Ah, no, still not my cup of tea. Just, um, out for a walk.” He glanced around, realized this wasn’t the place for an afternoon stroll. “Just, er, got a little turned around. Thought I’d get away from the shop and got a little further than I expected!”

Gabriel laughed. Fell tried not to cringe outwardly at the sound that reminded him a little too much of his family home.

“Well, you really must let me take you to lunch now that you’re here. It’s been too long since we’ve last had a chance to catch up.” He rested a firm hand on Fell’s shoulder. Too firm.

“No, I’d, um, really like to… I have to head back, you know, very busy time…”

“I insist,” said Gabriel, his smile stiff, his grip tightening.

“Um,” was all Fell had time to say before he found himself being half-dragged away from the construction site, down the road back to civilization.

* * *

Crowley’s neck hurt. And his shoulders hurt. But at least the pain distracted from how much his wrists and ankles hurt. They hadn’t been kind with the rope, and these were not comfortable chairs, even when you weren’t tied to them.

“You see what we’re doing here, don’t you, Crawley?” asked Lightburn—Ligur, if Crowley were to give in and use his stupid code name.

“Fraternizing with the enemy?” he supplied. It earned him a quick kick in the shin.

“Gearing up for war,” Hatter, who had taken to the name Hastur with glee when they’d founded the company, and now stalked the room like a cat playing with a toy. “It’s all coming together. And it will all be over soon.”

“If it’s all over, what more have you got to do?” Crowley rolled his neck, knocking his head slightly into the back of the chair. “What’s the point of taking down the competition if there’s no one else to compete with, then?”

“There’s always someone to compete with,” said Ligur. He hefted a bit of metal, not quite a crowbar but something like it, in one hand. “And we’ll find them, and take them down, too.”

“But this is the big one,” Hastur continued. “The one that will put us on the map. Once we take down YHWH, business will come rolling in on its own.”

“And they’re just fine with that, are they?”

“You heard what our visitor said, didn’t you?” Hastur stopped stalking. “They think they’re going to win. They’re wrong. Simple as that. If they think we’re working together, all the better for us.”

“All the easier for us to take them down from the inside.” The metal slapped into Ligur’s other hand like a bat.

Crowley swallowed and felt pain sear down his throat. “And you thought beating up one of your own was a good show of faith, eh?”

“Letting him have a moment with you was part of the bargain,” Hastur said, a small smile creeping onto his face. “We thought that was a small price to pay for his cooperation. After all, it’s your name on all that paperwork, taking all the business they couldn’t get.”

He was right. For obvious reasons, once one saw Hastur and Ligur in the flesh, Crowley had been the lead man, the face of the company, the one signing all the documents. By rights, it was all his, though he’d been doing the easy parts thus far.

Until…

“But, we’re feeling generous today.” Ligur stopped toying with the metal bit and crouched down in front of Crowley. “We’re giving you one last shot at not totally fucking this up. Get back on the horse and ride off to war with us, Crawley.”

“What happened to the grocery shop?”

Ligur scoffed, and one end of the metal bit hit the floor. Hastur, however, smiled even bigger, painting a horrible picture in Crowley’s mind.

“We took care of the pest problem, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Crowley’s already aching throat tightened. He hissed through gritted teeth, “ _Pest_ problem? Those were children you pathetic, putrid piece of sh—” He lunged against his restraints, uselessly he knew, and in a second Ligur had leapt from his crouch and punched Crowley so hard in the chest that he fell back into the floor, his head hitting the concrete so hard it shut out all the other pains at once.

“I think that’s a ‘no,’ don’t you, Hastur?”

“Regrettably so, Ligur. We’ll have to deal with him now, then.”

“Right.” Metal slid against concrete. Crowley did not open his eyes.

* * *

It had taken entirely too long to get away from Gabriel. Insistent though he was, Fell was extremely well practiced in the art of Not Going Out And Doing Things With People, and through a series of excuses piled on top of what he considered to be white lies, Fell managed to slip away and back to the construction site.

It was even more foreboding now that evening was coming on. The sun wouldn’t be out much longer, and every second wasted brought darkness on all the faster.

Fell walked directly past the DO NOT ENTER signs, marched straight into the building, and was immediately lost in a maze of plastic sheeting.

Fantastic.

He continued marching, if a bit more quietly, towards the center of the building. The maze turned out to really only have one path, which was swiftly becoming harder to see as the light outside faded.

However, the fading light did help him spot the only light source in the area, as far as he could tell, and Fell marched as quietly as he could manage towards it. As he got closer, he began to make out voices, distorted, but clearer the less plastic was between them and Fell.

Finally, he recognized one of them.

He wanted to call out, to make sure Crowley was all right, but something told him that wasn’t the smartest move just then. Instead, he reduced his march to a tiptoe, and pushed through the last few sheets of plastic in slow motion.

Despite the attempted subterfuge, Fell nearly cried out when he found the occupied room.

The peeked around the last bit of plastic to see two men—both with their backs to him—and Crowley, tied to a chair. He wasn’t breathing right, and the skin around his wrists was raw. The two men he recognized too: both still creepy, grimy, and even more upsettingly, one seemed to be brandishing a large metal bludgeon.

This one crouched down in front of Crowley and said something to him, quietly. Fell took a moment to look around the room. There was nothing but a few thin, metal lamps and flimsy looking chairs, four in all including the one Crowley was tied to. Not a lot to work with, even if Fell had had any idea at all what to do.

Then, Crowley lunged, yelling, “Those were children you pathetic, putrid piece of sh—”

The one with the metal bar stood up so quickly, Fell barely saw it happen. What he did see, crystal clear, was Crowley tip backwards in the chair, and his head hitting and bouncing off the concrete floor.

Fell gripped the plastic tightly in his hand.

“I think that’s a ‘no,’ don’t you, Hastur?”

There were several cleanly cut boards of wood stacked at the edge of the room.

“Regrettably so, Ligur. We’ll have to deal with him now, then.”

They were probably heavy. Fell couldn’t tell.

“Right.”

The man hefted the metal bar just a second too late. Fell brought the wooden board down on his head. The wood split—not quite as sturdy as it looked—but the man went down anyway, much to Fell’s relief. He turned to the other man, the taller one, preparing a jab with the now jagged end of the board. This one was unarmed, but looked strong enough to beat Fell to a pulp anyway. _Let him try,_ Fell thought, pointing the board’s now pointy end at the man’s chest.

The man turned, raised his fists, and then paused. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, me.”

And then, shockingly, the man lowered his fists and sighed.

His partner had just about recovered from the blow, and was pushing himself to his feet, metal bar in hand. “You’re going to regret that,” he said in a voice like gravel over ice.

“Ligur, don’t,” said the tall one.

Ligur stood, took stock of Fell and his jagged bit of wood, and shook his head. “Don’t see why we can’t just—”

“You know why,” spat the tall one. “Not part of the deal.”

Ligur didn’t spit any words at Fell. He just spat, a great big glob of it right at Fell’s feet.

“I’ll owe you the regret, then,” he said.

And then they were gone, disappeared into the maze of plastic. Fell stood very still, wood held aloft, until he couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore.

Then he dropped the wood and kneeled next to Crowley.

“Oh dear, oh shoot, Crowley? Crowley, can you hear me?” He continued talking as he struggled with the ties at Crowley’s feet. “Listen, I need you to wake up, I can’t carry you out of here, I’m horribly out of shape, and I realize you’re not in the best of shape either, but we do need to get out of here, they might come back and I don’t really fancy seeing either of them again any time soon and—”

“Angel…”

“Crowley?” Fell leaned down, still working on the last tie around Crowley’s wrist. “I’m here, yes, are you all right, I’ve just about got you untied here, and then we can—”

“Angel.”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Please, shut up.”

* * *

Crowley realized belatedly that he’d left the Bentley behind.

He wasn’t generally much for public transport. Crowley preferred to be the master of his own whereabouts whenever possible, and today had been no different, despite the inherent danger. Now, he imagined it hidden in the shadows of an alley near the construction site, out of sight but not so hidden that it couldn’t be found, tampered with, or destroyed out of spite.

He curled into himself just a bit at the thought and felt a jab in his chest.

_Oh thank Go— Sata— The Powers That Be,_ he thought, pulling his miraculously unbroken glasses out of his coat’s inner pocket and slipping them on. For a second, it seemed Fell’s frown deepened at that moment, but Crowley couldn’t be sure.

Fell had been frowning since they’d left the site, though he hadn’t said a word. Crowley had almost cracked a joke about him not meaning for Fell to shut up quite this thoroughly, but the look in the other man’s eyes was damning, and Crowley figured it was better for both of them if he kept the humor to himself for a while.

Another little bit out of that book came back to him, about fearing the anger of a nice man, or something similar. It wasn’t fear Crowley was feeling now, but something genuinely close to it.

Fell had marched them both down the street and to a nearby bus stop, practically daring anyone within sight to ask about the state of them: Fell’s rumpled jacket and dust-covered hair, Crowley’s bruised face and wrists, how he was walking with a hunch because it made breathing a little less painful.

After several stops, and when Crowley’s eyes had finally adjusted to the usual darkness again, he asked, “Fell, where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.” His voice was tight, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

Crowley believed him then.

What he couldn’t believe was when they stepped off the bus and Fell led them down a familiar street and around a familiar corner to…

“Oh, you idiot,” Crowley said without thinking. “It’s your shop! They know where your shop is! How is this safe?”

Fell did not answer, at least not out loud. Instead, he primly unlocked the door and held it open for Crowley, his single raised eyebrow implying both, “Have you got a single better idea?” and, “After you.”

Crowley shuffled inside.

Fell locked the door behind them. Then unlocked it. Locked it again. Then he turned and walked briskly to the shop’s back room, where the two had shared drinks hardly a day ago, though it felt like weeks, one for every ache in Crowley’s body.

Speaking of which…

He followed Fell back and promptly fell onto the plush couch. A handful of aches eased.

“Look, if you’re going to do a bit of reading just now, I’m going to have a nap. You wake me when you’re done.” Crowley began to arrange the pillows.

“Oh, get up,” Fell demanded.

Crowley lifted his head above the back of the couch, snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, just in time to see Fell pull a rather large, leather volume away from the shelf. The shelf itself began to swing open, smoothly and quietly, as if on a track, to reveal a well-lit set of stairs leading downwards.

“Oh,” Crowley said.

The eyebrow raised again. “’Oh,’ indeed,” Fell said.

Crowley peeled himself off the couch and shambled his way down the stairs. He felt more than heard the hidden door close behind him and Fell follow him down into the shop’s basement.

“Bit sparse,” Crowley commented as Fell appeared in the small room at the bottom of the stairs.

It wasn’t much to behold. To the left of the staircase was a small kitchenette, complete with mini fridge, sink, and a single wall-mounted cabinet. On the far wall—far being a relative term, since the room wasn’t very big at all—was a proper door, which Crowley assumed led to a water closet, or maybe a laundry room. And along the right wall, pushed up into the corner, was a bed, hardly more than a cot, though Crowley noticed it was furnished with hugely over-stuffed pillows and a large, thick comforter.

“Don’t… Isn’t there a flat _above_ the shop?”

Fell nodded. “Yes, but that’s for living, entertaining. This is more for work.” He turned to the kitchenette and began preparing tea, filling and plugging in a little electric tea pot and rinsing two teacups out in the sink.

Crowley watched him for a moment, somewhat fixed on the domesticity of it all. Then he turned and took another look around the room. At the end of the bed he saw was a small end table, upon which were a handful of old-looking books.

“Ah, so you do have favorites!”

Fell turned back to face Crowley, the fire in his eyes dimmed somewhat. “It’s not… they’re work. I mean, they’re lovely books, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t pick them as favorites.”

Crowley tried to swivel characteristically and found that his hips were not up to the challenge, so it was with significantly less swagger than he intended that he asked, “So what is it you do all alone down here in a tiny basement with nothing but tea and a bed to keep you company? What kind of ‘work’ is that?”

Crowley expected Fell to get defensive, maybe a little embarrassed by the implication, but neither happened. Instead, it seemed Fell grew suddenly more sure of himself as he said, “Well, if you’re so curious, I’d better just show you, hmm?”

He stepped lightly to the door on the other side of the room and gestured for Crowley to follow. Crowley did, crossing the room in just a few long strides.

“I don’t share this space with anyone else. These are sort of my passion projects. Most of these don’t even get to the shelves in the shop, they’re just for other collectors, you know…”

Fell pushed open the door. Crowley stepped through.

“Oh, angel.”

* * *

Fell pondered as he ushered Crowley through the door, what had possessed him to share this space so suddenly. He’d been thinking about it all evening, the whole bus ride back, even as he’d been opening the secret door behind the shelf. Was it really worth bringing someone else into this space, the only space he really thought of as his own?

He’d never let another soul into this room—nor any other version of the room he’d had while living elsewhere. It was his safe space, his place of worship, where he created his altar of pages and words, and added a piece of himself to them.

But as he ushered Crowley through the door, Fell found that it didn’t feel like an intrusion, or an invasion of his privacy. It felt like… opening a door and coming home.

He watched pensively as Crowley circled the tables, four in all. Each one was covered, every inch, in bits of books. The table furthest from the door held old books, tattered and bent, with scuffed and torn covers, uneven pages falling from aging bindings, and spines all but melting away. Sets of tools sat next to the pile of new arrivals, tools Fell would use to take the books apart.

The next table held glues, resins, scissors, wide needles and thick threads. Two huge clamps were attached to either end of the table, both currently occupied by reams of paper, new bindings left to dry.

The table next to that was scattered with bits of fabric, boards cut into various-sized rectangles, spines and covers restored, replaced, renewed. Stacks of covers-to-be bordered the edge of the table like castle walls, and small bottles of glue stood guard at the gates.

Crowley lingered at the final table the longest, and Fell let himself feel just a little proud about it. This table, closest to the door, was Fell’s favorite. Here, intricate tools sat in neat lines among leather and fabric covers. This was where he made the final touches to the books, any minor corrections or—though he wouldn’t tell this to his fellow collectors—additions.

Crowley reached out, very slowly, and ran his fingers along the edges of a leather cover, dark brown with gilded golden leaves impressed around the border. Could he tell how long it had taken Fell to recreate the original design? Could he pinpoint the bits Fell had embellished himself?

“Oh, angel,” he said again, “these are beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Fell mumbled, so quietly he could barely hear himself.

Crowley smiled, long fingers splaying over the gold filigree, and Fell thought of how he held the books in the shop, like they were precious, like they were his own to take care of.

He wondered what it would be like to be held like that.

Fell reached out and took Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, sorry,” Crowley said quickly, “I didn’t mean to mess with…”

He trailed off as Fell laced their fingers together.

“Ah,” Crowley added, eloquently.

“Sorry, dear boy,” Fell said, not sorry in the least. “Just got curious.”

He loosened his grip, giving Crowley a chance to pull his hand back, to pull himself back. He didn’t.

Now he’d gotten this far though, Fell found he couldn’t quite look up at Crowley’s face. He was sure his own face must have gone something akin to cherry red just then, so instead, he focused solely on their hands, how much longer Crowley’s fingers were, how much more of his own hand Crowley’s covered.

“We should get you some tea,” he said, “and aspirin.”

“Yeah, yes, right,” Crowley sputtered.

Fell didn’t have to look up at him to know the face he was making was adorable.

He led them both back out of the room. Crowley politely closed the door behind them before allowing himself to be pulled into the kitchenette. Fell did not let go of his hand as he reached into the cupboard for tea bags and sugar, nor as he leaned down to pull the cream from the fridge. He did have to let go for a moment to get the first aid kit down from the top shelf—he’d had more than a few accidents working down here, and it was good to be in stock of bandages, ointment, and painkillers—but Crowley did not move away, and in fact seemed to reach back out himself,  his hand back into Fell’s, once he’d taken the pills with a swig of the tea.

“Ow,” Crowley sighed, setting the steaming cup, now only half-full, back on the counter.

“Still hot.”

“Hmm.”

Fell picked up his own cup and turned them both around.

There was a moment that Fell knew could have been tense, could have been awkward, where they both realized there was only one seat down here. But the moment passed, and Fell chuckled a bit as he moved them both over to the bed.

Fell settled himself in with his tea and watched Crowley lower himself onto the comforter. He made a valiant attempt to stay sitting up, but after the day he’d had, Fell couldn’t blame him for falling back and practically melting into the down-filled fabrics, his hand sliding slowly out of Fell’s.

“Comfy then?”

“Hmph,” came a slightly muffled reply.

“So, I don’t suppose you want to tell me what that was all about?”

A slightly gruffer, “Hmph.”

Fell shrugged. “I can sit here all night. I’ve got quite a lot of tea in that cabinet.”

A long, deeply put-upon sigh. Then, with some difficulty, Crowley swam his way back through the covers and sat up. He rubbed his forehead above the glasses. He must have done that a lot, Fell thought; the eccentric glasses weren’t just for looking showy, but for hiding things as well.

“Well, you’ve met Hatter and Lightburn before.”

“’Met’ isn’t quite what I’d call it.”

“Well, you have now. They’re my business partners.”

Fell nodded. He’d figured as much. “And business has been bad, has it?”

“No,” Crowley practically spat. “Business is booming. And that’s the fucking problem is it all keeps blowing up in my face.”

Fell waited. Took another sip of tea.

“We’re contractors. We snap up prime real estate and have builders come in and rebuild even bigger, even better, and _way_ more expensive. And then we sell to the highest bidder, and start again.

“We’ve been going after shops in Soho for, what, two years now? Figured digging our claws into the entertainment center of London was the way to get us our biggest payday yet. Really only picked up traction the last few months. We had to. Competition was creeping into our territory.”

“Competition?”

“Those bastards at YHWH, pious pricks.”

“Can’t argue there,” Fell said, finishing the tea.

“Yeah, well, we started going after smaller places, places less worth the cost, but that we could fix up big time, just to cover as much ground as we could. And a little over a month ago we found this tiny, hole-in-the ground grocer…”

Crowley ran his hands through his hair. Took a deep breath. Blew it out slowly.

“The owner was long gone, stuff still in his name, but the place had been closed for ages. Empty, or so we thought. We got the papers all signed and went over one day, kicked in the door… There were people—” Crowley paused, cleared his throat. “Kids. They were just kids. Teenagers and younger. They’d been squatting there a while, had a whole little home set up. Looked damn cozy.”

He stopped again. His head was in his hands now, as if even the view through the sunglasses was too much.

“I said we ought to find them a place to go. Hatter said they had a place: right out on the corner. We fought a while, argued until people started looking like they were going to call the cops, and then I left. I shouldn’t have left. Shouldn’t have left those kids alone with those _fucking demons…_ ”

Fell thought back to the construction site, to Crowley lashing out, even as he was tied up himself, how angry he’d been. Looking at him now, Fell realized he wasn’t just angry at his partners; he was angry at himself.

“I have no idea what happened to them, but knowing those two, it couldn’t have been good.”

Fell set the cup down on the end table, pulled one of Crowley’s hands away from its grip in the man’s tousled hair, and held it in both of his own.

“You did what you could. You spoke up, you left, you refused to cooperate…”

“And now who knows what’s happened to those kids?”

Fell considered the worst possible answers first, then shook his head to will them away. “Honestly? They probably left as soon as you were gone. Your, er, colleagues are quite imposing. I’d certainly have left at the first possible opportunity, and well before either of them had a chance to do anything to me. I’m sure they’re fine.”

Golden eyes peeked over the rim of goggle-like sunglasses. “You really think so?”

Fell smiled as a big a smile as he could muster. “I really do.”

Crowley nodded, running his free hand through his hair again. Fell wondered if that was why it was always standing upright, always reaching for the sky and catching new hues of orange and red in the sunlight.

“You didn’t though.”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t leave.” Crowley readjusted himself—or, rather, readjusted the pool of comforter around him—so he was nearly facing Fell. “You say you’d have left at the first opportunity, but you didn’t. You stayed, you… came after me.”

“Well yes, dear, I wasn’t just going to let them… Okay, I had no clue what they were going to do, but I wasn’t about to just let them do it.”

“You’re an angel, angel.”

Fell could feel the blush creeping back in. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Crowley shrugged and wrapped his currently encircled hand around one of Fell’s. “I would.”

“Crowley…”

“Thank you. That’s what I’m getting at. Thank you for coming to save me, even though you didn’t have to, even though I’m the one who got you into trouble in the first place. Thank you.”

Fell didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t have voiced his rationale for running into almost certain danger for someone he’d known barely over a month even if he’d wanted to; he was too tongue-tied, too tired for that much fuss.

So instead, he reached up with one hand, gesturing softly at Crowley’s glasses, and asked, “May I?”

Crowley stiffened for just a moment, his grip a hair tighter on the hand holding Fell’s. Then he nodded, just once, very slowly.

Fell reached forward and carefully slid the sunglasses away from Crowley’s face. He quickly folded them closed and set them on the end table, on top of the books, where he knew they’d be safe.

Then he turned back and looked into Crowley’s eyes.

_Oh,_ he thought, _that’s why he needs them._

In Crowley’s eyes, Fell could see the emotions warring, clearly as if Fell was feeling them himself. The frustration and fear from the day’s events, the pain and regret of his past actions, and something else, something like awe, like ‘thank you, thank you,’ all played across the facets of gold and bronze and brown, and it took Fell’s breath away to see it bared so plainly.

“Beautiful,” Fell gasped.

“Yeah, you are,” Crowley replied.

Fell’s eyes darted briefly from Crowley’s eyes to his lips. He didn’t quite _decide_ to cover them with his own, but it happened, and kept happening, either way.

It was soft at first, cautious, like both were giving the other a chance to end it there, to move away. And when neither did, it seemed all bets were off.

Almost in unison, the two reached out, Crowley’s free hand immediately seizing Fell’s vest, Fell’s free hand sliding smoothly to the back of Crowley’s neck. The two pushed and pulled as if they weren’t sure which they wanted to do more, and it didn’t matter so long as they were moving closer, claiming more.

Fell parted his lips, and Crowley took that like the invitation it was. Fell marveled that he'd read quite a few romance novels in his time, and therefore should have been prepared, but either the books were wrong or Crowley was significantly more skilled than Fell had expected because this was much better, much more enjoyable than he’d imagined. He gasped just slightly and felt Crowley smile and pull him impossible closer, and the hand on Crowley’s neck crept up into his hair, which was beautiful and soft like the rest of him—

“Ow.”

“Oh!” Fell practically fell away, one hand returning to his lap while the other remained securely in Crowley’s.

Crowley’s free hand, meanwhile, rose and rubbed the back of his head. “’S all right, angel, just forgot how much that bloody hurt. _Ow._ ”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Did you want to lie down?”

The grimace Crowley had been sporting transmuted into a wicked grin. “Are you trying to get me into bed, angel?”

“You’re already in my bed, Crowley.”

“Oh. Right.”

Fell stood, reluctantly pulling his hand free. “Get comfortable. Here, let me take your coat, I’ll hang it up…”

Crowley shrugged out of his jacket, dark and something like soft leather, and handed it over. Fell went to the door of the restoration room and hung both Crowley’s coat and his own on a hook set into the wall next to it. He hung his vest and bowtie up as well, slipped off his shoes and set them by the door.

When he turned back to the bed, Crowley had already disappeared into the comforter again. His shoes, scarf, and shirt were piled haphazardly by the end table.

Fell lifted the covers and lowered himself onto the thin mattress carefully. He really couldn’t tell where exactly Crowley was, so thoroughly had the other man burrowed himself away.

He didn’t have to wonder about it for long. As soon as he was within reach, Fell was seized by a pair of long arms, which wrapped around his middle in a way that implied they would not be letting go any time soon.

“Didn’t think you’d be able to get away from me that easily, did you?”

Fell chuckled. “You don’t see me running, do you?”

“Hmm.” Crowley poked his head out of the covers. His hair was even more of a mess than before, much to Fell’s astonishment. “You know,” he said, wicked smile returning, “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without that coat on.”

“Lots of firsts today,” Fell said, wiggling one arm under the pillows—and consequently, under Crowley.

“Oh, Mr. Fell,” Crowley practically purred, pulling himself closer so that his head just about rested on Fell’s shoulder.

“Aziraphale,” he corrected.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, more softly this time.

There weren’t many people that knew Fell’s first name. He didn’t make a habit of sharing it with anyone who wasn’t a tax collector. This meant that, for the vast majority of his life, the only people who’d called him by it were his family, and he was almost never happy to hear it said by any of them.

However, when it was Crowley saying it…

Fell reached down, a whole new view for him since Crowley was taller when they were standing, and nudged Crowley’s chin up. There they were again, the fantastic eyes that slid through his dreams, only now the fear and pain had passed, and it was only the awe that remained.

“Say it again.”

Crowley’s smile, now both wicked and amused, remained. “Aziraphale,” he said, obligingly.

Fell’s heart fluttered just a little at the sound.

“Aziraphale,” he said again, pushing himself up on both hands, torso draped over Fell’s, face inches away. “Aziraphale.” He lowered himself and kissed Fell’s left cheek. “Aziraphale.” Kissed his right. Then, Crowley leaned down, lips just a breath above Fell’s, and whispered slowly, deliberately, “Aziraphale.”

Fell consciously decided on the kiss this time, and quite a bit of what came after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where I'd put the smut. IF I HAD ONE.
> 
> I literally don't though. Me writing smut sounds like... y'all remember that girl that wrote fanfiction of herself and Ashton Kutcher going to prom? "They frenched." That's what it sounds like. So if any of you would like to use this as a jumping off point, go for it. I will owe you one (1) fluff if you end up writing something smutty from here.
> 
> The construction company names were Googled and chosen largely because they looked like weird, Big Company Acronyms. I know what YHWH and PWCCA actually are, but feel free to let me know if it's weird to use them in this context. Also, further Googling reveals that PWCCA, in addition to being the name of a demon, stands for Pembroke Welsh Corgi Club of America, which is absolutely delightful.


	5. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did I tell you? WHAT DID I TELL YOU? I told you I'd forget, like a dingus, and I did!
> 
> But we're here now, and that's what matters :)
> 
> Thanks so much to Tamanegi, jam, rocketbeagle, Tattiboo and FisherTaiga for commenting back when updates were something reasonable! Many thanks also to OnionMummy, and more recently to Ragingdaisy for reminding me this exists and I want to finish it, and I should GET ON WITH IT ALREADY. Y'all rock.
> 
> And, thanks as always to ReginaTheBeena for making a mess of words into something actually readable! I'd be more than 6-months lost without you!

A.Z. Fell & Co. was not often open during normal business hours. The shop was rarely open before 9 in the morning on a good day, and the owner’s prerequisites for a “good day” seemed very flighty indeed. But this was not, as many assumed, simply because the owner liked to sleep in. He was usually up before the sun, tea in hand, reading or readying his collection for another day. Aziraphale was not a lazy person; he was just a reclusive one.

When he woke the first time, it was because his internal clock told him it was about time to roll out of bed. He registered the initial, if minimal, energy boost that would normally carry him as far as the nearest cup of tea. He registered the comforter, seemingly warmer and heavier than usual, holding him down. And as he adjusted his position, he finally registered the long arm wrapped firmly around his middle.

_Ah,_ he thought, _that makes sense._

He went back to sleep.

The second time Aziraphale woke up, it was not due to any firmly-ingrained habits. Rather, something was very wrong, though he couldn’t put his finger on what.

He opened his eyes.

There were no windows in the tiny basement. No natural light flowed into the room, so it was as dark as it had been when he’d gone to sleep the night before, lit only by a single overhead light, bright enough to read by, but dim enough to sleep through. Had it flickered? No, he was sure he’d changed the bulb recently…

He tried to lift himself up off the cot and was caught immediately by a warm, strong arm pulling him back down. Crowley, still mostly asleep, tugged him back towards the thin mattress, hid his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, and mumbled something unintelligible before drifting back into easy, peaceful sleep.

His hair tickled Aziraphale’s ear, and he smiled, reaching up to run a hand through the soft strands. Had Crowley shifting woken him up? No, Crowley’s steely grip on Aziraphale’s waist implied he was a still sleeper, and almost certainly hadn’t moved at all until Aziraphale had.

So what…?

The air shifted. The pressure in the room changed ever so slightly.

The door. The _hidden_ door.

Someone was upstairs. And there was only one other someone aside from the two currently in the cot that knew how to open and close that door.

_Shit._

Aziraphale flung himself out of the bed, tearing away the fluffy comforter and spilling Crowley, still half draped over him, onto the concrete floor.

“Ow,” Crowley commented.

“Sorry, dear!” Fell said, scrambling to get dressed. Socks, shoes, shirt, _where did that bowtie get to my goodness…_ Clothes half on, he stopped and looked at Crowley, long limbs akimbo as he lifted himself off the floor and back onto the bed. “Oh dear.”

“Yes, angel?”

“No, I mean… Shoot.”

He finished dressing as Crowley settled back into the comforter. Fell thought briefly of trying to sneak him out, but decided that would be nearly impossible, and more likely dangerous for them both.

“Don’t worry,” came a rough grumble from the mountain of blanket.

“What?” Could Crowley tell something was wrong too?

“I said,” Crowley said, raising his head to the surface so the venom in his voice could be heard better, “Don’t. Worry. I’ll be out of your hair shortly. Just finish whatever you’re doing and I’ll be gone.”

“What?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I _said_ —”

“You daft idiot, I’m not running out on you!” Aziraphale shook his coat in Crowley’s direction. “There’s someone upstairs, and he cannot find you down here!”

Aziraphale was once again astonished at the depth of emotion in Crowley’s eyes; though they were all he could see over the edge of the blanket, he was able to pinpoint exactly when Crowley’s expression went from hurt, to confusion, to fear like flipping through a picture book.

“Back door?”

“We’re in a basement.”

“Right.”

“Just…” Fell sighed and swung his coat over his shoulders. “Stay down here. Stay quiet. I’ll keep him upstairs, try and get rid of him as soon as possible. Okay?”

Crowley nodded, reaching for his sunglasses. “Yeah, yes, sure.”

Aziraphale paused, foot on the bottom step. He wondered if he stayed down here, if he shucked off his coat and shoes and crawled back into bed, if he could smooth the worry from Crowley’s face, if he could kiss that troubled expression away and bring back the peace.

A knock sounded from the hidden door above, solid and firm. Too firm. It made Fell’s heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons.

“I’ll be back,” he promised Crowley, who nodded again as he slipped the glasses over his eyes, shutting out only a fraction of the feeling he thought he was hiding.

At the top of the stairs, Fell paused again, this time to run a hand through his hair, adjust his bowtie, and straighten his jacket. In the darkness of the stairway, he could only imagine what a mess he was, but it was too late to go back down. Instead, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Aziraphale!”

“Gabriel!” Fell returned with a fraction of the other man’s enthusiasm. “What a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabriel smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“Walk with me, Aziraphale.” Gabriel took Fell by the shoulder and Fell had just a moment to feel relieved—if they left, Crowley might be able to sneak himself out—before Gabriel steered him right back to the secret door, still hanging open, and down the dark stairway.

“Uh, there’s not— Hold on!” Through a goliath-level of strength, Fell managed to put his arms out to either side of the stairwell and halt their progress. He looked up at Gabriel, still a step above him, still smiling. “There’s not really, uh, room for a walk down here…”

“Nonsense!” Gabriel gave Fell a shove just short of rough enough to send him tumbling. Fell caught himself just in time and looked back up at Gabriel’s unwavering smile as the door to the secret basement swung shut.

* * *

It was dark, but not as dusty as Crowley had thought it would be. At least he’d got his pants on, he thought, before the door had shut and two pairs of footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

* * *

Fell took the barest glance around the room, confirmed there was nothing obviously Crowley in sight, and let out the breath he’d been holding on the way down the stairs. He glanced at the door to the restoration room; it was the only place Crowley could have hidden, and the door was shut tight.

“Aziraphale.”

The man in question jumped as if his visitor had only just arrived. Gabriel tended to be startling like that, even if you were already looking at him. At the moment, Fell wished he had literally anywhere else to look; the unkind smile remained, startling not because it was out of place on Gabriel’s face, but because Aziraphale hadn’t seen it so solidly directed at himself in many years.

He suppressed a shiver and forced a smile.

“You see?” He flapped his arms rather less eloquently than he’d intended, gesturing to the small room. “Not much space for a walk! Bit stuffy down here in fact, can’t imagine why you’d—”

“Cut the crap, Aziraphale.”

“Ah,” Fell replied.

Gabriel stepped farther into the room, crossing to the bed with slow, deliberate strides. There was nothing left of Crowley there—clothes gone, glasses away, not even a stray hair on the pillows—but Gabriel’s gaze paused for several seconds too long on the two teacups on the bedside table.

“Long night?” he asked.

“Ngk,” Fell answered, then he swallowed and tried again. “Y-Yes, lots of work lately.”

“Oh Aziraphale.” Gabriel sighed like a father readying himself for a lecture. “You don’t have to lie anymore. I know what you’ve been up to. Where is he?”

Fell could feel his heartbeat in his stomach, at his temples, in every fingertip. He had to remember to breathe, and in the moment it took him to get his lungs going again, he knew he’d been quiet too long.

Still, he pushed on. “Who?”

The façade cracked. And there, finally, was the Gabriel Fell had grown up knowing: impossible to talk to, easy to anger, and still, somehow, smiling.

“Do you know what you’ve done, Aziraphale? What you’ve cost us these last few weeks?” Before Fell could even think to answer, Gabriel strode back across the room and planted one hand on each of Fell’s shoulders, gripping so hard he knew there would be bruises tomorrow. He lowered his startlingly violet eyes to Fell’s. “It’s time to come home, Aziraphale.”

“No.” It was out of his mouth instantly, but so quiet Fell barely heard it himself.

Gabriel either didn’t hear, or didn’t care. “You’ve been on your own too long, Aziraphale. Strayed too far. I know you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy, that snake at PWCCA. We know he’s been stalking your shop, and you’ve been encouraging it. It’s _disgraceful,_ Aziraphale.”

The sound of his name in Gabriel’s voice made Fell’s stomach churn. It made him want to hide under the covers, or perhaps hibernate until summer when the weather was better. The look in those violet eyes was ice cold.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Aziraphale?”

Fell wanted to throw up, and kept his mouth shut to avoid it.

Gabriel nodded. “Right.”

He pushed Fell away, back towards the stairs, and turned to the restoration room. The sudden shove cleared the fog from Fell’s brain, and he rushed forward, grabbing at Gabriel’s arm as the other man reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t you dare—”

“Don’t _I dare?_ ” Gabriel ripped his arm free, pushed Fell back onto the cot, and opened the door.

Fell flew to his feet, his only thought to defend Crowley, to stop whatever Gabriel had planned for him any way he could.

But the room was empty. Or, well, relatively so. The books and supplies still sat primly on their tables, pages fluttering ever so slightly as the door swung open, and the smell of drying glue and ink wafted through the air.

Fell caught a glance of frustration, then anger, as Gabriel stepped into the room and crouched to peer beneath each table. He glared into the dark corners as if daring someone to step out into the light. When no one did, he stomped back into the main room, past Fell and to the stairs.

Before ascending, he turned back to Fell, icy smile finally gone.

“Come home, Aziraphale,” he said, and it did not sound like an invitation. “Come be a part of this family for once.”

Then he was gone.

Fell realized, in the ensuing silence, that he was breathing in great gulps of air, like a fish pulled from the sea, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room, like he’d been punched in the gut and couldn’t catch his breath, like—

“So. Family matters?”

Fell flew backwards on the cot, smacking into the wall behind him as Crowley’s face appeared from beneath. He’d been under the bed the whole time.

Fell tried to laugh. It came out as a sob instead.

“Oh, angel.” Crowley scrambled up from the floor to sit next to Aziraphale, long legs curling underneath him, hands glancing gently over Aziraphale’s face, his chest, his hands. “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale finally managed a deep, strong breath and shouted, “NO!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Won't be 6 months again lads. I can't leave Aziraphale crying and walk away, that's just rude, and probably outright blasphemous on some level. Anyway, I have plans, plotty plans, and they'll be out SOON. 
> 
> That said, I'm always open to friendly reminders and/or bullying to make it happen sooner :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, for the love of... someone, if you like this, please bother me to post. I will forget. I will stare at written chapters until I hate them. Just annoy me, I'd appreciate it. <3


End file.
